


Master-Mistress of My Passion

by Mastermaid



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Imagery, M/M, Poetry, Romance, carmina burana, latin is a language in Middle Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29596836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mastermaid/pseuds/Mastermaid
Summary: Frodo's mind rests in language; Sam is salt of the earth. In the Shire, pre-quest, and Sam and Frodo are at the beginning of their romantic relationship. Sam will follow Frodo anywhere, but he'd be much happier if 'anywhere' were a bed
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Master-Mistress of My Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Veni, veni venias  
> ne me mori, facias  
> -  
> Come, come, oh come  
> Do not let me die
> 
> Carmina Burana, Part of an 11-12th Century poem

On a high shelf in the dusty study, Frodo found a slim leather-bound book that he hadn’t opened before: It turned out to be full of poems that for the most part, were in an ancient language of which Frodo had little knowledge. This was one of the formal languages of old that learned hobbits and men had studied for hundreds of years after it had ceased to be spoken in the fields and villages. As he read through, he noted that some of the poems appeared to be drinking songs fit for a merry night at the inn; some were songs about fortune and fate; and some were unmistakably about love and desire. Innuendos abounded, and Frodo’s attention was caught up with the little poems that seemed somehow both as fresh as a riot of new flowers and as ancient as ruined stone halls on silent hills where once men had knelt and sung. Not to mention as forward - if innuendo can be considered forward - as he wanted to be with Sam. He and Sam had only stolen kisses and brief touches; their relationship hovering uneasily between what was and what would be. 

Frodo turned a page and read, _ “Ne me mori facias.”  _ That was not so hard, “means, ‘ _ do not let me die,’  _ ” he mused. “And Sam,” he added, with a smile to the empty room, “do not let me go to bed tonight, without a kiss.”

The sun had risen high overhead when Frodo walked slowly across his lawn to where Sam was kneeling on the grass, and staring off at the distant hills with a handful of dandelion leaves in his hands. 

“Sam, could we go for a tramp this afternoon?” Sam started; tried to stand up, nearly upended, and promptly gave up the effort. 

“Sir Frodo! I mean, Mr. love, Frodo! Dear me, but you fair startled me there!”

“Well, Sam; How about it?” 

“Aye,” came Sam’s reply with a warm smile. “As long as you’d not be minding about what shan’t be gettin’ done here.”

* * *

"Frodo Baggins, don't you dare," groaned Sam quietly into his hands. They were about three hours gone and Frodo, who was about 5 yards in front of him, was pushing rocks and dirt out of the way as he scrambled up the heavily-treed hill and continued his excavation attempt. A large pile of pebbles cascaded down towards Sam who hastily stepped aside. 

"Sam, there really is a gap in this rock, and I think it goes quite far...it looks like a cave." Frodo heaved more pebbles and dirt aside and all over his britches and feet. 

"Probably a badger hole," said Sam gloomily, still trying to see the point of this particular mission. The walk through the fields and the green summer woods had been a delight, but chasing Frodo up a steep slope, wooded and pathless, and attempting to dig out a badger hole just as they were about to turn for home, was not. "I reckon you may not want to disturb her if she's in there still. You'll get a right nasty greetin’ if you keep..." He trailed off, seeing that Frodo’s attention was given over entirely to pushing aside the rock so that they could explore the cave. 

Suddenly with a shout, Frodo disappeared from Sam's view as a vast avalanche of dirt and rock gave way down the hill. 

"Frodo!" Sam cried. A muffled curse was the only response. Sam sprang up the rest of the slope and looked in, passed moss-covered boulders where a fissure had opened up, and into a small tunnel that sloped steeply downward. "Frodo, Sir!" he called with some trepidation.

"I'm alright, Sam. But come down if you can; although try to go at a slower pace than I did." Sam sighed with relief and resignation and wriggled through the fissure, slithering down the tunnel, using his hands to brace himself on the smooth stone. 

"Frodo Baggins, you will be the death of me!" and he sighed again. Frodo turned, and in the half light that filtered down from the top of the hole he saw the outline of Sam come closer.

“ _ Veni _ ,  _ veni _ ,  _ venias _ ,” Frodo said, with a shy smile, once again slipping into some ancient language that Sam could only guess at. “It’s from a poem, Sam. It means, ‘come, come, oh come!’” Sam blushed at the insinuation. Trust Frodo to find a poem that consisted mostly of the word ‘come’ and then say it while looking at him with  _ those  _ eyes! Stepping lightly forward, Frodo put his hands around Sam's waist and pulled him close, tipping his own face to the side to kiss Sam's soft lips. 

"Sir, I’s not one to be picky," came Sam's own muffled response, as he backed his face away from Frodo's, "but we are both head to foot a-covered in soil and we've been walkin' long and I'm drenched in a sweat already. And now I'm not sure we'll not be stuck in this hole all night and I'm right hungry! I'm not feelin’ the romance, like!"

"Are you not, Sam?" Frodo, still standing close, brushed his hand down Sam's cotton shirt, passed the waist, and against the front of the britches, just softly, teasingly. Sam groaned, grabbed Frodo's arms and gently pushed him backward, with an exasperated smile on his face. "Let's us just explore what you want and then get out o’ here before we do that, Sir?" 

Now it was Frodo’s turn to sigh. Admitting defeat, he turned and walked forward slowly, giving his attention to their surroundings. It was dark. And where the tunnel opening was, only a little daylight filtered down, but as Frodo walked forward it grew steadily darker. Sam followed, shuffling slowly until they seemed to be in the middle of the chamber. All of a sudden, Sam jumped. 

“Ugh! Some creeper’s on me leg!” He lifted his foot up and anxiously brushed away at whatever it was. Frodo didn’t speak. He thought of spiders in the cave and wondered what else might live there. He walked on feeling the bare wet rock sloping down under his feet while the roof grew low enough to touch when he reached out his hands. It too was wet and a smell of damp and mustiness hung in the stagnant air. Still, beyond that, Frodo thought, there seemed to be some ancient feel to the air, and a faint scent of something like faded petals of a flower, though what kind, he did not know, as though freshening a drawer of musty clothes. The quiet, wet gloom of the cave pressed close, but not oppressively so; more expectant and soft feeling like a heavy and languid summer night under the stars. 

“Sam, do you suppose fairies or...or anything else use this cave? I suppose animals might live in here, but perhaps it’s not only used by them?”

“Well, spiders for one, Sir. Ugh, but that one gave me a right start, to be sure. But no doubt bats and mice or snakes. And just talkin’ about that gives me the shivers. I’d rather think it was for fairies but I’d trust your judgement on that. What makes you think so?”

“It just feels old in here. Old, and well, I remember Bilbo talking about caverns under hills where fairies lived in the old days. They’re akin to the elves but not the same; not anymore. And the Tooks still tell stories about fairies living under the hills and only coming out to dance at night under the moon and stars."

Sam breathed in the scent of damp rock and watched the darker shape in the gloom that was Frodo. 

"I'd dearly love to see that, Sir. Now that'd be a sight, that would." Sam could sense that Frodo was lost in thought, his mind turning to those old stories and combing through his memories for shreds of mentions of this place. "Come on, Mr. Frodo - dear," he added as he gently touched Frodo's arm to start him moving forward again. "There's daylight away ahead us and we'd best reach it afore it gets dark". 

Caught out of his reverie by the gentle touch, Frodo slowly started forward again, soaking up the feeling and scent of the cavern and trying to etch it into his mind. He thought of the anxious tone in Sam's voice at the spider, or whatever it was, that had crawled on his leg. Smiling to himself he realised that Sam - while bearing up remarkably well so as not to let him down - was not growing any fonder of this particular underground adventure. He quickened his pace a little and it wasn't long before they reached the far wall and growing light. They saw that there was indeed a small opening in the rock, covered on the outside by breaks of fern. Frodo, and then Sam, squeezed through the opening and tramped over the crackling fern to look out over the fair Hobbiton farmlands. This side of the hill was covered in bracken and grasses that sloped down to cultivated land, for the woods seemed to have failed somewhere behind them on the western slope. The sun was low behind them too, and the light slanted across the green land, painting the paddocks, and tipping the trees and hedgerows with gold. Sam felt calmer now that he was outside again with the wind on his face, and he smiled. This was better: just him and his master looking out on the golden, green land. 

"Right pretty those fields look just now, Sir." And he reached tentatively around Frodo's waist. Frodo smiled and leaned back into Sam's encircling arms; both hobbits' bodies relaxing at the touch. It was all very new, this touching and this acknowledgement of feeling. It felt natural and yet strange to them both, and both still felt at times that initial hesitancy that comes with newly fallen boundaries between friends or between master and servant. Hesitancy yet heat also from a newly kindled fire. Frodo didn't want to break the touch or make Sam feel shy about initiating it, but in truth he was growing a little uncomfortable: his back was beginning to hurt. He took Sam's hand in his own and turned with shining eyes. 

"Come, let's go back," he spoke low and gazed into Sam's eyes and slowly kissed him. Sam's breathing quickened. 

"Yes, Sir, let's go back. And quickly!" “It’s too bad there ain’t no feather bed in these fields”, he added slyly, blushing. They were as quick as could be walking over the fields toward Bag End where there most certainly was a feather bed.

The sun lowered and sank behind them when at last they passed by the apple orchard behind the hill of Bag End, and met the little footpath through the empty paddock. Frodo giggled and grabbed Sam’s hand and they both began to run: excitement and anticipation making them giddy as the dark shadows bloomed at their feet and crawled over the land. They jumped over the low place in the hedge, and made their way over the lawn laughing, and at last, at long last, they were at the round, green door with the brass knob in the centre. Sam reached for Frodo’s waist again as Frodo opened the door. And then they stumbled inside and shut out the night. 

Frodo turned and held Sam’s wrists in his own dirt-streaked hands, gently raising Sam’s hands to pin him against the door. Sam’s face shone with love and reverence as he looked at Frodo. And Frodo leaned in, lips touching gently, kissing Sam softly, persistently; working Sam’s lips, opening them with his, and gently pushing the tip of his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Sam groaned. He would surrender everything to Frodo; everything he had, and nothing could be sweeter but to be vanquished by his beautiful master. He was desperate to touch Frodo, to run hands along those slim hips, to touch down his front, to what he knew lay underneath, but he was not allowed: Frodo still pinned his wrists to the door while he kissed him insistently. It was ecstatic want and need not to be able to touch Frodo; exquisite frustration that caused him to rise as brilliantly as the morning sun and to groan into Frodo’s mouth. 

“Sam, my Sam,” sighed Frodo, breaking away at last, looking on Sam’s young, sun-loved face. “My Sam, will you allow this?” he asked in a whisper. Frodo’s own desire was threatening to engulf him and yet, he realized with trepidation that his need might be too much, and he feared perhaps, and absurdly so, that he had misjudged Sam’s desires. Perhaps Sam was only doing this because Frodo asked it of him? Or because he feared for his livelihood should things go wrong between them? Frodo let go of the wrists quickly but instantly Sam’s hands were on him, touching everywhere, rubbing over his sides and back and down his backside. At this, Frodo’s eyes that had grown round and fearful, closed and in joy his body felt like it should be melting. Sam kept one hand on Frodo’s backside, while the other pressed against the front of his britches, rubbing longingly and threatening to wear away the material. Now Frodo’s body was held upright and stiff by Sam’s very capable hands. 

“Mr. Frodo, Sir...love, there’s nought nothin’ fairer than this, me dear.” Frodo could not help but laugh. 

“Sam, you needn’t call me…”

“Shhh, Frodo, Sir….don’t you know I love calling you all those things? For you are all those things. Ain’t no boundaries here, now, but you’re my master, my love and I calls you what you are to me.”

“Sam,” gasped Frodo, while Sam’s hand kept rubbing him, the other arm encircling his waist and trapping him in close. “Sam,” he hesitated and whispered, “Sam..., master me. Please”. 

Sam slowed his hand as he looked quizzically at Frodo, trying to decipher his words. Yet he thought he could guess at it. Master Frodo; to master Frodo... take him in hand, dominate him; do as he wished with Frodo’s beautiful body. Sam groaned deeply as he felt himself rise higher between his legs and stiffen. 

“Aye,” he breathed and grinned and then without further ado, hoisted Frodo up and slung him over his shoulder, like playing sack-o-taters with a fauntling. 

Frodo squeaked in surprise and cried out with a laugh, “what are you doing? Where are we going?” 

Sam was running up the darkened hall of the smial carrying Frodo all the way to the washroom where he placed him upright on the flagstone floor and then kissed him soundly on the mouth. “Got to get us cleaned up, we do, master, dear.” It was awfully dark in the windowless room and Sam turned his attention to lighting the oil lantern and hanging it from a hook on the wall. 

Turning to Frodo, who had stayed where Sam had placed him with his hands loose by his sides, Sam grinned again. 

“By your leave, Sir,” he said, and with a mischievous look on his face he took hold of Frodo’s weskit and dragged it off his shoulders and placed it on a chair. Then he began unbuttoning his master’s tunic, his fingers becoming frantic. Frodo didn’t know whether to laugh or moan or to sink to the stone floor in longing. His Sam was undressing him without waiting for a yea or nay; mastering him, indeed! He settled on a strangled sound that exited his throat with a gasp as if he had just surfaced from being held under water. 

Roughly, Sam opened Frodo’s tunic and ran his hands over white chest and stomach, and then dragged the shirt from Frodo’s arms and off. Now he kneeled down and the grin left his face and his hands, shaking, began unbuttoning Frodo’s britches. Frodo grew stiff at the feel of Sam’s fingers through the material. When the buttons were undone, Sam, his face at eye level with Frodo’s groin slowly drew off the britches while Frodo stepped out of them shyly. 

“Oh,” Sam breathed. “Beautiful Frodo,” his eyes seemed to drink in the sight of his Master. He touched and it was like smooth, hard marble in a nest of darkness. He took the silver bowl from the wooden tub which was filled to the brim with cool water and poured it over that marble shaft making Frodo gaspe. Sam washed Frodo’s cock, his feet, hands and backside and stood up to pour water over Frodo’s hair. He rubbed the yellow soap over Frodo’s body, spreading his arms to wash between them and chest, and poured water from the silver bowl again and again until it ran clean onto the flagstone floor and down into the drain. Frodo stood shivering, eyes big and golden, shining into Sam’s face, letting Sam do what he would. When Sam was done, he quickly shed his own clothes and washed himself thoroughly. 

“There now, Sir; I’ve washed them faerie mound cobwebs and grime from us as best I could, and near froze both of us with that cold water. Forgive your Sam, but you’ll soon be warmed up if you let him keep on,” He glanced at that place between Frodo’s legs again, and Frodo’s lips parted as he breathed out hard in want. “Aye, I’ll take that as ‘aye,’ ” said Sam softly. “ Now up you come, Sir, and let me have you,” and he lifted Frodo under the arms and Frodo wrapped his legs securely around Sam’s strong hips and clung to his neck. With one hand, Sam managed to take down the lantern and bring it with them as he took them into Frodo’s bedroom. They crawled into the soft bedding like small creatures burrowing into a den under some fragrant fir. It was a warm night, and the fire wasn’t needed but Frodo was shivering with cold after the bath. Sam came to him, brown eyes smouldering with hidden flame and gathered him into his arms, petting him all over, wrapping feather comforters around them both and kissing that sweet dark head. Sam’s hands skipped lightly over Frodo’s cool skin: soft and fair he found him. He stroked Frodo’s forehead and kissed it, kissed his cheeks, his lips, shoulders; stroked hands down his arms, stomach, between his legs, to hidden regions long kept secret. His hands were as butterflies fluttering wings over Frodo’s skin, causing Frodo to shake and gasp, heat rising, letting dew drops form on tip gilded in the lamp light. 

As Sam opened his mouth to Frodo’s neck and sucked, as he took Frodo’s wrist and pinned it to the soft bed, he muttered, “Master ye...master ye, sweet master…Mr. Frodo, my dear,” And continued to distractedly mutter variations on Frodo’s name and all the titles that he had ever given him or thought to give him. Frodo laughed clear and happy, and such was his joy that the sound turned into almost a sob. He groaned with want. 

“Sam, please, please...let me touch…” 

“No Sir, not yet, ye don’t, I’ve got ye, I’ve got ye, Sir. Now lie down, lie down sweet Frodo, love,” And he laid Frodo’s body down on the soft sheets, dark curls falling back on the white pillow. Sam held Frodo’s wrists over his head with one hand, and with the other, he groped down Frodo’s side until his hand lay alongside that which refused to lie flat. He looked down at Frodo whose breath was coming in quick shallow puffs, and then quick as lightning, his hand wrapped around Frodo’s cock, tugging at him while his eyes locked on Frodo’s face. 

A shocked, “Oh!” escaped Frodo’s lips and he closed his eyes, feeling himself drowning down deeply into the purest of pleasures that arose between his legs. The butterflies were gone, and it was only deep, full pressure, tugging on him. Frodo stiffened, breath quickening, as Sam’s hand kept stroking, root to crown. And Sam lay crushed to Frodo’s side, body along body, slowly grinding his own cock into Frodo’s thigh. Pressure too deep and dark, making Frodo need the storm to burst in thunder and lightning and pelting rain, and it did; he did. Sam stroked until the tightness Frodo felt loosed itself and exquisite, enduring pleasure pulsed through him like rain, and Sam saw white glistening on Frodo’s stomach. Frodo gasped and his body shook, and Sam scooted up to encircle him again in his arms, Frodo clutching onto Sam as he tried to get his breath. 

“Sam, that was...that was...marvelous, oh Sam oh Sam, I didn’t know, I’ve not felt, I…” 

“Shh, me dear, I know. I know. I’ve got ye still,” Sam held him close, until Frodo’s shaking began to subside. 

“Master; love, begging your pardon, bu…”

“You hardly need to beg my pardon, Sam. I am in your debt!” Frodo smiled weakly.

“Don’t ye say that! Ye don’t know...but I do, Sir. And I do need to beg your pardon, love...I ...well you said ‘master you’ and well, I would...I.... I want to screw you,” he whispered finally. 

“I want you to,” whispered Frodo right back. 

“Like...well...I never have done...like a maid...a mistress...but you...and it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sam. It’s possible,” and Frodo smiled, and Sam knew he was thinking of some older memory, a shade of some former time. “There is oil in the nightstand. You will need to use it, and help me with your fingers, and when I’m ready...yes, it is certainly possible.” And Frodo drew his legs up to his chest and hugged his knees. 

Sam took the little bottle he found in the drawer and dripped some onto his fingers. “How?” He looked in some consternation at Frodo. 

“Put your finger inside me,” Frodo whispered, warning, “slowly.” And Sam did, with some apprehension lest he hurt him. And a prone, curled up Frodo guided him with his voice as gently as if they were sitting together with a book in some ancient tongue and Sam was stumbling through the words. 

“Move in and out, just a little,” his voice caught as Sam did so. “Oh!, and two fingers now...Oh..oh,” he gasped and looked over at Sam’s cock. That was going to hurt, he thought, and shivered in anticipation. A minute came and went before he felt ready for more. “Three, Sam,” He whispered, then winced and groaned. “Still! Stay still!” he begged as he felt the burning stretch.

“Frodo, love, I don’t want to hurt ye, Sir,” said Sam who half wanted to forgo the idea now that he saw Frodo in pain and yet the other half of him wanted nothing but to subdue Frodo all the more. Frodo let out a deliberate and slow breath: for good or for ill he knew how to do this. After a minute, he let Sam move again and finally, folding a pillow beneath his own backside, he told Sam to put the oil on himself, “As much as you can...though be kind to the bedding, please.” 

Sam, looking at Frodo then - arms tight around knees, dark curls on pillow, white skin, and where Sam’s fingers had been: dark crimson and secret place waiting to be entered - thought him the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. 

“Love; Mr. Frodo, Sir; my master-mistress,” said Sam, kneeling over him, prick in hand, and he placed it  _ there _ , and slowly pierced his master, eliciting from Frodo a cry. Sam froze and waited until his master started to breath again. “I don’t have to,” Sam whispered, softening a little at Frodo’s pain. 

But Frodo looked up into Sam’s face and whispered, “I want this.” Sam groaned and grew harder again. 

“Tell me that again,” And Sam pushed further, waiting again at the wince on Frodo’s face. 

“My Sam, I want you inside me.” Sam pushed in deeper, and pulled out some, leaning on Frodo’s legs which were crushed into his chest. And then Frodo felt himself loosen on the inside and he breathed, rocking his body, encouraging Sam to quicken his pace. Sam didn’t need telling. Bracing his arms on the bed next to Frodo’s shoulders, he began thrusting into him in earnest. “Sam,” gasped Frodo, who could barely speak. The fullness felt like it would only keep increasing, keep filling him up until there was no empty space, just the fullness of Sam’s love and desire and cock. For minutes beyond count, he was full of Sam and Sam felt himself wrapped in Frodo’s heat. And for the first time, Frodo, felt  _ that  _ place, that darkest place of all, nudged by Sam, and utmost pleasure surged like waves deep inside him. He couldn’t remember a time when his thoughts and his senses were so entwined. His thoughts were usually wrapped in languages, in the meaning of words traced across time, or else memories or feeling out the dark places of the world, while his body simply existed in restless wandering. Sometimes both were semi-congruent when watching the beautiful fields, the sun or stars or else tasting the autumn bounty of the Shire. But this! So deep was Sam inside him that it breached his very existence: all touch, all thought and all feeling; he must die of it!  _ Ne me mori facias! _

Sam, for his part, was firmly bound in his body even as he loved stories of other places and times. And at the moment, he couldn’t quite believe his luck, to be surrounded by the beautiful Frodo, all bent white limbs, and shining eyes. Sam felt the tenseness in his lower body tighten further. 

With a quickening pace, and faster jerks, Sam finally went rigid, deep within the warmth of Frodo’s body and then came: 

_ (veni, veni, venias)  _

each pulse, a little jerk within his master. 

He collapsed to Frodo’s side, withdrawing entirely all at once, and Frodo hid his face in his hands at the sense of emptiness that replaced Sam. Sam may not have done this before with anyone, but he knew Frodo, could read his master like a poem or sing him like a song, and before he had even caught his own breath, he was pulling Frodo into his arms. 

“Sir, it’s your Sam. You’s alright. Your Sam’s got ye still, and he ain’t goin’ nowhere nohow. You’re safe, Sir. You’re safe with me. You let me and I’ll take care of you now,” He covered Frodo’s hands and hair in kisses and pried Frodo’s hands from his face. “I’ve got ye, Sir. Come back to me, I’ve got ye,” He kept speaking in low gentle tones until Frodo could look at him again. “Where’d you go, master?”

“You will think me absurd, Sam. I felt so full, so full. And then you were gone. But I’m filled with you. And I’ve been pierced. I should have warned you...it’s like a small wound for me...no, no!”, he shook his head at Sam’s saddened expression, “of the most intense pleasure, I promise; and some pain too, but it doesn’t leave me easily. And I feel empty.” 

“Not absurd, never that, master. Well, mayhap we’ve done too much too soon but I’ve got ye still, master-mistress whether or no. And you just need to come back down from where you went.” Sam cradled Frodo to his breast and rocked him gently, wanting only to care for Frodo’s body now. “Love, my Frodo, was that...I hav’na done this before...was that...I mean, was it alright? I reckon I shouldn’t a’left you so sudden like, but I felt all of a jelly, if I may say so. And I mean to thank you, and to love you, Sir. You’s an eye-opener, Mr. Frodo, that’s what you is. I ain’t never goin’ te forget that; and it don’t matter how many times we may bed each other!” he ended, shaking his head in wonder as he looked down on Frodo’s dark curls. 

Frodo immediately felt laughter and warmth spread in his belly and he hugged Sam. 

“My dear Sam, I promise you, that will be the first time of many,” said Frodo warmly. “But now I need to clean up, before I destroy my own bedding.” Frodo groaned as he stretched his legs out and slid off the bed. And Sam watched him walk gingerly to the chamber pot, legs apart a little, and squat down. 

“Ah, love, I have hurt you!” said Sam, filled with remorse and confusion still. For Frodo had definitely seemed to have wanted him, and now he had wounded him. But Frodo laughed and smiled shyly. 

“Sam, you only did as I asked. And this -” he gestured to his sweetly defiled lower body, “is a...a… is your prize and your praise,” he finished finally. He didn’t know how to explain to Sam exactly the feeling that being so used and safe and in love gave him: as if Sam had touched his very soul and tied it to the ground. As if he was split open and enveloped in love. 

Sam thought. He would start to understand only later, when Frodo lay on him and in him weeks after. For now, he decided to trust Frodo that it was praise and that his master would recover and to try and hold back a little more in the future no matter what his master said. Praise and prize, was it?! He began to grin in spite of himself while Frodo wiped himself with a wet cloth at the washstand. He took his own turn there and turned to watch Frodo still walking slowly and awkwardly back to the bed. 

“What does it feel like?” he asked.

“Open,” said Frodo. “Open inside. And odd. And I’m glad I don’t have anywhere to be just now.” At that Sam started.

“Oh bugger! Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, I’ve got to get back! I’ve clear missed supper! And missed feedin’ you, Sir. And Gaffer’ll be a wonderin’ where I’ve got to! Ah, I’m all of a dither now, but I can’t be leavin’ you like this, Frodo, love. Oh dearie, head in the clouds again, and my Gaffer’ll have me head too, clouds or no clouds. Ninnyhammer! but I’m fetching you some feed first, Sir.” And completely naked and muttering to himself, Sam disappeared out the bedroom door without even a candle, much to Frodo’s amusement. Frodo for his part located some clean underthings and a nightshirt and a richly decorated dressing gown - one of Bilbo’s old ones that he had inherited along with Bag End. He slipped on lamb’s wool slippers and then took the lantern and followed Sam to the kitchen where Sam had a kettle full of cold water hanging above the darkened ashes, and a round bread and lump of cheese on the table. Sam was crouching by the grate and shivering in the cold as he blew on the embers. 

“Sam, I am ordering you to go put on anything clean of mine you can find before you catch cold, and let me do that,” laughed Frodo. 

“Right you are, Sir,” said a shivering and grateful Sam who disappeared again but was soon back in one of Frodo’s old nightshirts and his own dirt encrusted britches. Frodo made Sam stay long enough to have a quick bite to eat and then, when the teapot was filled for Frodo’s last cuppa, Frodo fair herded him to the door. Sam turned to look at Frodo again with a look of utmost reverence and concern. 

“Sir, love, will you be alright tonight, alone-like? I’ll be back in the morn afore you know it to care for you. For ever and ever. You know tha’s so,” he said resolutely and added slyly in a sing-song voice, “for never was a master alike to you; masterin’ my master-mistress, tha’ I do.” 

They kissed softly and then Sam was gone into the night. And leaning in the door frame, Frodo whispered to himself, “ _ Veni, veni, venias. Ne me mori facias _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm still not sure about the title, but I think I need to use this one from W. Shakespeare
> 
> Sonnet No. 20 begins:
> 
> A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted  
> Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;


End file.
